the cards

Tekst utworu

[narrator] Sitting alone at a small, circular wooden table beneath a low hanging amber light was Selene. She wore a heavy, dark cloak, her long hair wild and smelling faintly of sage, crushed pine needles, and ancient secrets. She didn't look up when he approached; her eyes were fixed entirely on a deck of tarot cards laid out on the worn wood. Before he could pull out his notebook to write a defensive greeting, she spoke. Her voice was a calm, grounding anchor that cut straight through the ambient noise of the tavern. "The cards have been waiting for an Aries in the dark," she whispered. She slid a chair out with her foot, gesturing for him to sit. "You’ve been running so fast through your own head, Alisdair, that you didn't see the trap you set for yourself." He sat down slowly, his hands gripping the edge of the table. The iron portcullis in his throat felt heavier than ever. With a slender finger, she tapped the first card on the left. The Empress. "The one who gaslighted your memory," Selene said, her eyes finally lifting to lock onto his. "She cast you into the dark, Alisdair. She made you believe you were a beast, made you believe your love was a weapon so destructive you had to destroy yourself to save her. But it wasn't her who built the cage." She flipped the second card in the center. The Hermit. "This is the silence you defend," Selene continued, her voice softening but remaining unyielding. "You lock your throat because you are absolutely terrified to see how the stories always end. You’d rather play the silent, tragic martyr in a neon city than face the friction of a real morning." Finally, she reached for the crown of the reading— the card that dictated his ultimate path. She flipped it over, but it landed hard, completely inverted. The Sun, upside down. The golden face of the card looked distorted, stained by the purple and amber shadows of The Velvet Crow. Selene stared at it for a long, heavy moment, a grim, knowing smile touching her lips. "A lion doesn't lie," she murmured, tracing the edge of the reversed sun. "You think you're protecting her memory by playing the beast, but you're just lying to yourself. Holding on to this tragedy isn't your salvation. It's just a prison of your own design." Alisdair’s hand trembled slightly as he pulled a small, tattered moleskin notebook and a brass pen from his jacket pocket. The iron portcullis in his throat felt like a physical block, hot and unyielding against Selene’s words. He scribbled frantically, the ink bleeding into the damp paper, and slid the note across the polished cards: I had to hide her from the Queen. I had to break the connection to keep her safe. The cage is a shield. Selene red the note without moving a muscle. A low, tragic chuckle escaped her lips as she looked up from his messy handwriting. "A shield?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper that cut through the low hum of the tavern. "Alisdair, look at your hands. You aren't holding a shield. You are holding the bars from the inside. The Queen didn't curse you to keep you away from Lorna. You cursed yourself so you’d never have to fail her again." He stared at her, his lungs tightening against the cold steel cage in his chest. He wanted to scream a defense, to prove that his tragic exile was noble, but the silence inside him was absolute. Before the panic could pull him back under the trapdoor of his mind, Selene stood up, sweeping the tarot cards back into a neat deck with a fluid motion. "Come on," she said, gesturing toward a larger, dimly lit booth near the hearth of The Velvet Crow. "You've spent enough time playing a tragic king in an empty room. It's time to try on a different character sheet." He followed her, his boots heavy on the sawdust floor.